


Close Your Eyes

by the_rat_wins



Series: Very Persuasive [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hypnotism, M/M, Mind Control, Rimming, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he watched Peter do with Stiles was a mistake. Good thing Derek's never going to let it happen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Never_Says_Die](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Says_Die/gifts).



> (Because "Everything You Ever..." is, like, the most beautiful Stiles/Derek mind control fic imaginable.)
> 
> More hypnotism shenanigans! The second half will follow shortly, hopefully this weekend.

Derek watches the light drain from Peter's eyes, and feels a wave of relief as the memory of that night _(Stiles's mouth open and wet, the grip of his fingers as he held his legs open, the confused slur of his voice)_ dies with him.

It's better this way, despite Peter's explanation that he was only doing it to show Derek something he needed to know.

But it had just been so easy, such a relief to slip back into the mindset of the obedient Beta, not questioning, not needing to decide for himself. His father and Laura had never wanted anything but the best for the pack, so why would he have questioned their orders? And in his own sick way, wasn't that what Peter had done, too? Looked out for his Beta?

But even through the daze that had surrounded him as he watched Stiles come from nothing but Peter's whispered words, Derek had known it was twisted around, all wrong. There were a million things Peter could have made a human do to show him what he needed. Why Stiles? Why _that_? It was . . . it had just gotten out of control. Gone way too far.

But now it's over. Peter's gone, and it's like it never happened.

The warm haze that sometimes lingers around the edges of his mind as a Beta is fading away, replaced with a hot surge in his stomach, spreading out through his limbs. It's power, control, all the things Peter had talked about, and it's _good_. It cuts through the darkness around him, makes things clear and bright. He can smell Peter's burnt flesh and his blood on the ground, the gunmetal reek of Argent, Scott's fear and sweat, and Stiles. Just . . . Stiles.

He can feel himself growing hard in his jeans, but he's willing to bet that's a normal reaction to what's happening to him right now, all that heat and strength and power rushing around inside him. Still, it makes him want to push something, someone, to the ground and—

The teenagers should probably go. And he sure as hell doesn't want Chris Argent to see him like this.

***

When they've left, he heads deeper into the woods, stripping off his clothes as he walks. The blood is pounding through him now, his body trying to adjust, and it's overwhelming. He can feel the moonlight hitting his skin, almost like a touch on his shoulders, his arms, his back, and its pull is stronger than it's ever been. His head is spinning, and he drops to his knees. There are twigs and rocks digging into him, but he can't even feel it right now.

He reaches out one hand and braces himself against the tree in front of him, while his other hand wraps around his cock. He gasps a little at the feeling, his cock blood-swollen and harder than it's ever been. The slide of his hand is satisfying; the friction makes him shake with how good it is. But his mind supplies something better. Something hotter and wetter, clenching and releasing around him, taking him in deeper and deeper.

Turning his head to the side and inhaling deeply, he can almost catch the smell, warm and sharp, that would surround him. He want to bury his nose in it, burrow in and never come out again, just rub and rub until they're both gasping. That mouth, open and wet, against his skin . . .

He chokes and comes, biting down to stop the name on his tongue.

 ***

The point is, now that Peter's gone, he stops thinking about Stiles when he's awake, which is a relief.

It's only when he's asleep that things still happen, a quiet voice whispering in his ear as he holds Stiles down, pushes into him, wrecks his mouth, licks him open till he's trembling.

But never while he's awake. And that's what counts, right?

 ***

To say that it chafes Peter to come back and have Derek as his Alpha isn't quite right. It's more like water torture. Every new mistake Derek makes is another soft drip between his eyes, and it _just won't stop_. Derek has to be argued, persuaded, taunted, or otherwise finagled into doing anything sensible, and being an Alpha makes him exponentially harder to sway, even for Peter.

While he's awake, anyway.

And he can't even begin to deal with Stiles. There hadn't been time, when he'd first shown up at the scene of Jackson's conversion, for Stiles to do more than flail incoherently at Peter's presence, his mouth working with what seemed to be indignity at the injustice of the situation. Peter could see where he was coming from; no one likes to see their hard work undone.

Which is why it was so irritating to smell that Stiles was almost completely untouched by Derek. Peter had practically handed him over on a silver platter, and Derek had apparently still managed to screw it up somehow in his absence.

Fine. Peter can see where his help is not appreciated. When he takes them under this time, it's going to be for his own amusement.

*** 

Despite the fact that Derek talks a big game about not trusting Peter anymore, he's not very careful about falling asleep in exposed places. Like the recently acquired living room couch. Peter leans in the doorway, smirking at the curled-up form of his nephew. His _Alpha_. Despite the inevitable canine comparisons, Derek reminds him of a cat sometimes: so focused on the immediate goal that it's easy to come from behind and net him. It's a failing, maybe a fatal one. Peter's fine with that, as long as it's him who profits from the fallout.

"Derek," he says softly. "Do you remember the summer you came to stay with me, when I still lived by the ocean? You were . . . fourteen, I think. You had just started turning on your own, and you were being"—he laughs a little at the memory—"difficult. Your mother thought it would be good for you to get away from the main pack for a while, work out some of that _aggression_ away from your younger siblings."

He can see a little frown creasing Derek's forehead, and it's just the same as the scowl his fourteen-year-old self had worn constantly that summer. Except . . . "I remember you loved the water, didn't you, Derek? I'd come down and find you in one of the deeper tide pools, just floating, rocked back and forth by the little waves." Derek's breathing is slow and even as Peter walks into the room. "And you told me that you liked how you could feel the moon pulling the water, the same way you could feel it pulling you when you changed.

"But that wasn't the only thing you liked, was it, Derek?" He's down next to the couch now, and Derek is still deeply asleep, open and vulnerable to Peter's words. "Oh, I never embarrassed you by bringing it up, of course. It's hard being a teenager, even harder for us. And you just needed to be touched, didn't you, Derek? Hands, water, what's the difference? Stroking you, going"—he exhales slowly, watching as Derek shifts a little at the memory—" _everywhere._ You liked that, didn't you? Lying naked in the water, feeling it moving around you. You could touch yourself there, away from your family, away from the house, where no one could hear. Where the water would wash it all away and the tide would drown out the sound. Water moving up your body, sliding back down . . ."

Derek is helplessly hard now. The memory that Peter is invoking brings up urges that go further back than whatever the Argent bitch had done to him. It's like he's fourteen and untouched again. His hand is curled up into a fist near his face, and his frown has become something softer and almost pained with the intensity of the sensations that are rushing through him. Peter's never seen him look so young.

"Don't move," he whispers. "Stay here, Derek. In the water." Derek nods in agreement, and a little whimper stutters out of him as the movement rubs his body against the couch.

Peter reaches for the phone on the floor next to him, scrolls through until he finds a text message exchange with Stiles, from the middle of some crisis or another. What _is_ it with this town? He studies Derek's charming text etiquette for a moment, then taps out his own message.

_Need you at the house. Now._

A long pause. Peter pictures Stiles blearily fumbling for his phone, squinting at the glow of the screen. Muttering in annoyance while he begins to type—

_What the hell can't wait until tomorrow morning?!_

Peter smiles. But he knows enough about Stiles to not waste his time on a lie. Curiosity will do his work for him.

 _Now,_ he replies, and turns the phone off. Don't want any interruptions.

 ***

Stiles tries to call Scott, obviously. He's not going over there alone if he can help it. But Scott's phone is off, which isn't actually too surprising, considering tonight is the first night Allison has offered—without being asked first, let's remember—to actually go see a movie with him again, just as friends, _but that's still good, isn't it, Stiles? At least I'll get to see her again, and_ . . . and the point is, Scott has a pretty good reason to have his phone off. This time. Maybe.

Grumbling under his breath, Stiles pulls on his jeans, but he'll be damned if he's changing his shirt. If Derek wants him to come look at some stupid book, or weird animal tracks in the forest, or whatever the hell, he'll just have to live with it. Stiles is not going out of his way to look nice for werewolves. Especially werewolves who can't seem to manage to do their own research. Or anything else to take care of themselves and their pack.

By the time he makes it to the Hale house and pulls the door open without knocking (because again, werewolves can _deal)_ , he's ready to share with Derek a few of his thoughts on being woken up in the middle of the night, and yes, okay, it's only eleven, but it's—

It's not Derek standing in front of him.

Seeing Peter up close makes all the air in his lungs feel like it's just _poof_. Gone. He knew that Peter was back, saw him when Jackson was . . . reborn or whatever, but he's been trying to avoid thinking about it, remembering the sight of Peter's burned and broken body on the ground, bleeding out. But he's here now, solid, in the flesh.

"Stiles," Peter says softly, one hand outstretched. "Stiles, just—"

"Shut the hell up!" says Stiles, and smacks the hand away. "Where's Derek? He texted me."

"He's inside," Peter says. "And would you mind to talk a little quieter? You're going to wake him up."

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting his _beauty sleep_?" Stiles freezes. "And what do you mean, wake him up? He just . . . no. Wait. You . . ."

Peter is staring him down, and Stiles wants to back away, run out to the Jeep, drive away as fast as he can—but he doesn't think he can move. His heart is hammering, like a panic attack, but his breathing is still normal, for now. Just fast. Pulling in oxygen, trying to fuel a fight-or-flight response that _doesn't seem to be happening, what the hell._

"Stiles," Peter says again, and his hand is encircling Stiles's wrist, fingers burning hot against the bare skin. "Stiles, breathe. Breathe and listen to me."

"I'm not listening to you," Stiles hisses. He still can't move, why can't he move? "Get the hell away from me."

Peter drops his wrist, and for a second Stiles thinks it somehow worked. But suddenly Peter is behind him, pressing against him, hot breath in his ear. "Please, come in, Stiles. It's only polite, once you've been invited." Stiles can feel the prick of claws against his throat, and yeah, Peter can't turn him anymore, but death and dismemberment are still very much on the table, and not necessarily in that order. Stiles lets out a shaking breath, and his eyes drift shut. The delicate pressure on his throat guides him, and he steps across the threshold.

His heart is hammering frantically; he can hear the throbbing pulse in his ears, and he knows Peter can hear it, too. They stop after maybe ten steps, the press of Peter's fingers directing him as clearly as words. He thinks they're in the living room now.

"Turn around slowly and look at me, Stiles," Peter whispers. "Don't blink, please."

Stiles doesn't know what else to do. He's seen the damage Peter can inflict on a human body, and Stiles might be fast enough for the lacrosse field, but here, he's defenseless. He turns, feeling Peter's hand slide around until it's gently cupping the back of his neck.

Peter's eyes are a cool blue. The feverish, manical glint Stiles remembers from the night Kate Argent died is gone.

"Things are different now, aren't they?" Peter says. "Nothing to worry about anymore. No one to be afraid of." Stiles can feel his heart slowing just from hearing the words, and it relaxes the rest of him, a heavy, drugging warmth that spreads out from the hand on his neck.

"I'm afraid of you," Stiles hears himself say, and then swallows hard, trying to pull the words back into his mouth. _Admitting weakness to the predator. Not smart._

"Oh, Stiles," Peter murmurs, and he's smiling, those eyes still locked on Stiles's, mesmerizing, deep. "I'm the last person you should be afraid of. You can trust me, completely. I only ever wanted what was best for the pack. And what was best for you. None of that's changed." The heat and weight of his hand on Stiles's neck is burning now, but Stiles can't move. Doesn't even want to, really.

"I—" he mumbles, and feels his eyes beginning to close.

"I said not to blink," Peter says sharply, and Stiles's eyes jerk open again. He licks his lips, and he's not sure why. "You can trust me," Peter repeats. "All you need to do is listen. And there's nothing you have to worry about, is there, Stiles?"

"No," he says, and it's true, and it feels _so good_ to know that. His muscles relax entirely, and his knees buckle without warning. He drops down, still staring up into Peter's eyes.

"Good," Peter says, and Stiles's mouth drops open a little at the warm wave of pleasure that rushes through him when he hears the word. "You can close your eyes now, Stiles." He does, and his world narrows down. Everything around him is warm, and dark, and safe. The hand on his neck is keeping him still, but that's good, too. If he just does what he's told, nothing bad is going to happen.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in delivering the actual sex scene! Real life intervened. Hopefully it is still satisfying!

Stiles is kneeling, naked, over Derek on the couch, eyes closed, head tipped back, and a flush high on his cheeks. His cock is only half hard, untouched. Peter watches as Stiles reaches back to pull himself open, then slowly lowers his body until he is right above Derek's face. Derek is oblivious, still dreaming, still floating in the water—until his nose brushes against the soft skin that Stiles is exposing to him.

Peter can see the moment that Derek's touch-starved body (if not his mind) realizes what is happening; his hips shift restlessly, thrusting up a little into the air, and he turns his face to rub against Stiles, who lets out an unsteady breath and then rocks his hips firmly back into Derek's face.

There's a little frown of frustration on Derek's forehead. He rubs his face against Stiles again, then turns to nudge his nose between Stiles's cheeks, pushing them farther apart. Derek clearly wants to touch, but he doesn't seem to know what to do. He rubs harder, and Stiles moans and pushes his ass against Derek's mouth.

"Kiss him," Peter says, and Derek presses a soft kiss directly to Stiles's hole. He pulls away a little and drags his lower lip across the flushed skin. Then he lines his mouth up again, and gives it a long open-mouthed kiss, his tongue gently pushing against the rim. After a few licks, the tip of his tongue slips inside.

Above him, Stiles lets out a soft noise, and Peter can see his knees shaking, pressed against Derek's sides. He's probably going collapse forward in a minute against Derek's body, humping desperately—and Peter doesn't want that.

"Sit down, Stiles," he says, and Stiles spreads his legs wider and lowers himself until he is pushed open against Derek's face. Peter can't see where they are connected anymore, but judging from Stiles's slack-faced look of pleasure, and the little thrusts his hips are making, Derek's tongue is deep inside him now.

Stiles's hands are still behind him, no longer holding his cheeks apart, but resting lightly on Derek's shoulders. His cock is hard, rubbing against Derek's chest, leaving wet smears.

"Are you going to come, Stiles? Just from having something in you?" asks Peter. Stiles nods frantically, eyes closed, the rest of his body jerking from the movement of Derek's tongue inside him.

"Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, I'm . . . _uh_ . . . ," he trails off, grinding down a little harder. "It feels . . . _good_."

"Good," Peter echoes back at him, and watches a shiver work its way through his body. "Good, Stiles. Relax and let it happen. Feel his tongue warm against you, touching you, inside you. Is he opening you up, Stiles? Can you feel yourself getting loose and wet every time he slides his tongue in?"

"Yes," Stiles whimpers. "It's . . . _oh god_." And he comes, his cock pulsing and jerking, still untouched. His hole must be clenching around Derek's tongue, because Peter can hear a quiet, muffled moan, the first noise Derek has made. And Stiles is still trembling, but Peter wants to see Derek's face.

"Stiles, slide down," he says, and Stiles does, in one long smooth motion that Peter wouldn't have thought he was capable of, until his ass is aligned with Derek's hips, and his head is tipped back over Derek's shoulder.

Derek's eyes are closed, and his expression is the same as before; he's still dreaming, with that little frustrated frown between his eyebrows. But his face is flushed, and his mouth and chin are smeared wet.

"Is he hard, Stiles?" Peter asks, his eyes still fixed on Derek's face.

"Yeah." Stiles sighs the word out, dazed.

"Reach back and put him inside you," Peter says.

"Yeah," Stiles says, nodding dreamily. His hand wanders down behind his legs, and for a minute his fingers just press against the red and puffy skin of his hole. The tip of one finger slides inside.

"Stiles," Peter says, quietly. "Put him inside you." Stiles sighs again. His hand goes farther down, and he grips Derek, who makes another little noise, not quite a moan. Stiles shifts his hips, trying to get him inside, but his hole is too wet, and the head slips at the last second.

Derek growls, his hands come up to grip Stiles's waist, and then he shoves inside.

Stiles cries out, his body arching up, but Derek's hands tighten and pull him back down, pushing his cock all the way inside. He slides out, then thrusts up, hard, Stiles writhing against his grip.

Now that he's started, Derek is out of control. He stabs into Stiles over again and again, working inside him, harder than he probably should with a human, harder than he would if he was in his right mind. But Stiles's arms are behind him now, locked around Derek's neck, pulling him closer, and his cries begin to trail off into moans.

Eventually, Derek's movements begin to slow. Every thrust up into Stiles is deep and lingering, and he pulls out less and less each time, until finally he is pressed tight inside. Then he stops and holds still.

Peter listens to them breathing—gasping—together for a long moment, Derek's nose buried in the curve of Stiles's neck, Stiles's hips raised by the fullness in his ass.

"Tighter," Peter says, and Stiles spasms, clenching around Derek, who begins to come inside him with a choked-out cry like a howl of pain.

Werewolves run hot, so Peter can guess what Stiles is feeling now: long, hot pulses burning against already-sensitized skin. There must be pain, but Stiles has a blissed-out smile on his face as he grinds down, trying to grip Derek even tighter.

Suddenly, Derek pushes against the couch to turn the two of them on their side, curling around Stiles with his back to Peter. He's still asleep—Peter and his throat would definitely know if he had woken up—but somehow, even through the trance, his Alpha-possessiveness has managed to detect the threat to his claim.

Peter smiles a little, and walks around to the back of the couch to look down at them.

Stiles looks like he is truly asleep now, dead to the world, and before he wakes all the way up, Peter will talk him under again, then take him upstairs and clean him up, help him get dressed, walk him out to his Jeep and send him safely home.

Derek will know as soon as he wakes up. He'll know what happened, against his will, and he'll know who has the power to make it happen again, maybe this time with Stiles awake and screaming for help. Chris Argent may have reached a tentative agreement with Derek, but he won't allow an out-of-control werewolf to run the Beacon Hills pack.

And Stiles?

Peter leans down, ignoring the subvocal growl from Derek, and traces Stiles's mouth with one finger.

"You'll dream about it, Stiles," he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> It appears I've given Derek a "jacking off in the woods" scene in two of three Teen Wolf stories now. I make no apologies.
> 
> As with previous, story is unbetaed (I'm happy to fix any typos you point out), and the depiction of hypnotism is the stuff of fantasy, not reality!


End file.
